Night Anchor

Stalked back through the cracked front door as night arrived. Enough street patrol. In the dim corner of the living room sat a heavy ceramic mortar bowl, thick and glazed deep brown. Broad stone pestle rested across its rim. Obstacle. I did not detour. Lowered my skull and rammed the cold ceramic flank. Dense, dull thud. Did not budge an inch. Good. I swung my tail rigid against the floorboard seam, backed my rear talons firmly into the rug pile, and clamped my lower jaw right over the cold granite pestle handle. Shadowed rear. Wide view of the quiet hallway. Post secured.